Rest in peace, Evel Knievel.O leaper,O thrill-seeker,O wearer of patriotic jumpsuits, youearned huge amounts of moneywith your pointless, suicidal stunts,and brought glory to America.Yet the IRS chased you down& stung you for millions in unpaid taxes.Bastards!“World’s Greatest Daredevil.”That was your title.Which is strange becauseon the big jumps you always crashed.Caesar’s Palace,Snake River Canyon,Wembley Stadium.Boom. Splat. Boom. Splat. Boom. Splat.Jon Ive says if someone crashedthat much in our businessthey wouldn’t call you “world’s greatest.”They’d call you Microsoft. Or Windows.A bit unkind of him, I think.Because you inspired people.Including me. One time,when I was thirteen, I built a ramp on my street& put on a cape& a football helmet& tried to jump a Schwinn Stingrayover three kindergarten kids.Each kid lay on the pavement holding a pair of enormous torches —rolled-up newspapers doused in gasoline.Flames leapt eight feet into the air.Soon after thisas a condition of my paroleI joined my school’s electronics club.The rest, as they say,is history.